


Needlework

by Ellenar_Ride



Series: Mending Links [4]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Isolation, Mending Links 'Verse, Mourning, funeral rites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21517183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellenar_Ride/pseuds/Ellenar_Ride
Summary: When he isn't in his workroom, crafting restlessly—when Sav catches him and drags him out and wraps each finger individually and growlsso help me if you touch one more needle before those scabs are healed I'm going to steal all of your materials!—Split settles by the firepit, or in the corner of the living room, and watches the Links come and go. For a moment, when Myth and Tribal and Sand and Way and Shift stumble in after some ridiculous shenanigans, or Wolf and Ages trail in with Dei drifting behind them, Split can forget he's alone.(Prompt: Knitting and Sewing)
Series: Mending Links [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545610
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	Needlework

Split is one of the quieter Links. He likes to avoid the madness, sitting off to the side and knitting until he's forced to step in. When he first arrived, Sav took one look at the knitting needles he clutched like weapons (that _are_ weapons, that have saved his life in more ways than one since he left behind his sword to seal Vaati in place) and asked if he knew how to make socks, gloves, scarves. The answer, of course, is yes—provided he has the yarn. He also knows how to sew: tunics, pants, cloaks, coats. He's not exactly _good_ at cobbling, but a halfway decent pair of leather boots isn't out of reach.

 _Why are you so self-sufficient,_ Sav pointedly never asks. Asking would imply he doesn't already know the answer, know how much the wound would hurt if he ripped off the scab. Instead, he asks Split to sew: winter clothes, summer clothes, adult's clothes, children's clothes, swimwear and coats. Asks Split to knit: gloves, scarves, socks, hats, for the stubborn Links when winter comes. And he delivers a bundle of wool, cotton, yarn, thread, needles; all the tools and materials he could ever need. Politely pretends not to notice the shine of unshed tears in Split's eyes.

The other Links are kind enough not to say anything when Split keeps sewing, keeps knitting, even after he's pulled together a full wardrobe for all twenty-five of them. No-one breathes a word when he knits in fours: socks, gloves, hats, scarves. No-one make a sound when he sews the same: tunics, pants, undershirts. He digs out his awl and the remaining leather, and pulls together four belts, four sets of vambraces, four pairs of boots. He knits until his hands cramp, sews until his fingers bleed, and sizes each piece for himself.

When he isn't in his workroom, crafting restlessly—when Sav catches him and drags him out and wraps each finger individually and growls _so help me if you touch one more needle before those scabs are healed I'm going to steal all of your materials!_ —Split settles by the firepit, or in the corner of the living room, and watches the Links come and go. For a moment, when Myth and Tribal and Sand and Way and Shift tumble in after some ridiculous shenanigans, or Wolf and Ages trail in with Dei drifting behind them, Split can forget he's alone.

Alone. It's such a little word. People throw it around all the time, meaning little by it. Even Split used to use it so lightly. Not for the last two years, five months, thirteen days. Not since he lost ~~gave up, surrendered, ABANDONED~~ his sword. Not since he killed the idea of the-four-who-are-one. These days, Split is alone in his own skull, his head too empty and quiet, and when he looks for his brothers they aren't there.

Watching the quartet of identical Links hurts the worst. The familiar flash of colors—green, blue, red, purple—and he has to catch himself every time he sees them, bite his tongue a moment before calling out to them with an in-joke they won't understand. They're not his brothers. His brothers are _gone,_ and it's his fault.

Vine will never scold his brothers for their oddball wackiness. Harvestbell will never pick at his brothers, stirring up an argument because he can't stand the silence. Monkshood will never take him up on it, picking at his grammar right back. Amaryllis will never pout and throw himself down in the middle as a distraction, playing peacemaker while Vine tries in vain to suppress a sigh.

Split misses his brothers. He misses them so much it hurts.

Zelda asked him once if he sewed to distract himself from the pain. He didn't answer her, but that's not why. He sews and knits to remind himself. To remember when he was four, not one. Needlework was the one thing they all had in common—the one thing they could all sit together in peace for an hour or two and share.

Split walks back into his workroom and picks up one of the four identical gray tunics. This one will get embroidery in a beautiful rick purple. Monkshood blossoms, sprouting from the hem, cascading down the sleeves, swirling along the collar in an imaginary gust of wind. He will sew and sew and sew until the tunic shines with spidersilk fine purple thread that catches the light, until every shifting movement stirs the petals to life, dancing an illusory ballet across the fabric.

In the corner, another tunic hangs. The thread on this one is fiery red, capturing a maelstrom of Amaryllis blossoms flitting about. A cheery crimson, blooming eternal, clustered together. The flowers shudder and jump as Split plucks at the fabric, until they almost look alive. Two more tunics hang covered in the wardrobe, unadorned, waiting for blue Harvestbells and green vines respectively.

His brothers are gone. With the loss of his sword, they're gone for good—they're dead. And he will not let them rest unadorned, unhonored. They are the most precious people he's ever known, and he will give them a prince's honors. So he sits in his workroom and he sews and he knits, works with leather and beading and fiddly embroidery with fine, expensive thread. He hides in his workroom, where he has sewn life for his new family, and he sews his brothers' funeral garb.

When their burial clothes, his masterpieces, are finished, he will gather supplies and lock himself away in his workroom and start work on their shrouds. He will lock the door and refuse to come out or speak until he has sewn their lives and their deaths and his own hand in both into the sheets of fine gray silk. He has no bodies to bury, but he will wrap each fine outfit in its corresponding shroud and bury them in an unmarked grave in a land far from home.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how I feel about this one. It's a lot harder to write for the Links that don't have a game, since there isn't much to base their personalities on.
> 
> NEW LINKS  
> Sand - Hero of the Desert (Prince of the Desert AU)  
> Shift - Hero of the Minish  
> Dei - The Goddess' Hero (Pre-SS)  
> Green - Green Hero of Light (FSA)  
> Red - Red Hero of Light (FSA)  
> Blue - Blue Hero of Light (FSA)  
> Vio - Purple Hero of Light (FSA)


End file.
